


The Dark Aster

by JessamyGriffith



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Bartender - Freeform, Cameo appearance by Rocket, M/M, Pre-Movie(s), Staraccusemas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the edge of the Andromeda Galaxy there is an asteroid. On this asteroid is a space station. In this station is the bar called The Dark Aster. And the humourless being who runs it is a young Kree named Ronan.</p><p>Alone, exiled and disgraced, all Ronan wants is to run his business and find a way to redeem his maimed honour. Too bad a certain impudent, mobile peace-disturbance that calls himself Star-Lord has taken to haunting his bar.</p><p> </p><p>An AU set in the Marvel cinematic universe where Peter Quill and Ronan meet in their mid-twenties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Battle Poetry and Ravagers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FancyKraken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyKraken/gifts).



> For FancyKraken, who I'm sure really only wanted a nice porny one-shot instead of a multi-chapter thing. Sorry about that. The bet involving certain articles of intimate apparel from your prompt WILL come, probably about chapter five.
> 
> With thanks to my sometimes bemused, sometimes shouty CAPSLOCK betas, alltoseek and alcyone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another night at the Dark Aster, and Ronan is annoyed.

“So, do you have any other laser weapons behind the bar?” There was a pause. Ronan stiffened. “Because, big guy, your eyes are _killing_ me.”

Ronan’s shoulders relaxed. He didn’t look up at the speaker, giving the drink a quick stir before setting it on the bar before an unsteady Krylorian.

“Your admirer is back,” Gamora said. An obvious statement. The young male in the red jacket who had spoken waited in expectant silence, elbows on the bar. Ronan turned instead to Gamora. With a flick of his eyes from the empty tray in her hand to the low tables where customers waited, he indicated that her presence was unwelcome. She left with a sly curve to her lips and a flick of her hair. With reluctance, Ronan moved to serve this unwelcome addition to his club.

“What drink do you want?”

“Oh, come on!” the man cried. “That’s all you’ve got? I’m trying here!”

Ronan gazed down at the grinning face with irritation. “Yes.”

He’d always thought himself a good student. But since he’d left Hala, he’d discovered that Kree schooling had left him woefully unprepared to dealing with certain types of individuals. Or one individual, at least, who’d begun haunting his establishment the last few night-cycles. Happily, Ronan was a quick study, even with such a poor instructor as this. He’d learned to pare his phrases to the barest minimum. ‘What would you like?’ was too open-ended. Not even the unassuming query ‘May I help you?’ was without peril. The last time he uttered it, it had elicited a frank request from this appalling being. Had he not been trained in stoicism and the ability to maintain a blank face, he might have blushed. Ronan’s fingers curled and uncurled beneath the cover of the bar.

The man’s face fell a little, though the smile stayed in place. “Not even a hello? Wow, your customer service skills are kinda lacking tonight.”

Ah. Yes. Nettled by the accidental reminder, Ronan drew a slow breath, composed a brief battle-poem in his head and relaxed his jaw. He dipped his chin. “Welcome to the _Dark Aster_. I am -” He caught himself before uttering the innuendo-laden _your bartender_. “- serving beverages to customers tonight.”

“That wasn’t even a question,” the man said. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?” He waggled his brows.

“When the final star in the last quasar in the universe burns out,” Ronan retorted.

“Poetic. I like it. So what you’re saying is, my having a chance with you is small.” The man’s smile was irksome. “But it’s possible!”

“No.” Ronan added an additional stanza to his battle poem. “Well? I don’t have all night.” He pointedly glared up and down the bar. A few beings who had been trying to catch his attention abruptly found their current drinks were sufficient, empty or not. Ronan scowled. The man followed his look and smirked.

“Yeah, just run off your feet, sure.” Ronan shifted his posture subtly. It had the man backing off, hands held up. “A drink, right. Dealer’s choice.”

“What?” Ronan frowned at him.

“The drink. You pick one for me. What’s good?”

_The bottle of surface cleaner ought to be lethal enough. Looks Xandarian, ergo weak._ Ronan shook off the thought. He snatched for a bottle without looking, splashed liquid into a tumbler and shoved it across the bar. The man opened his mouth, and customer or not, Ronan was going _end_ him if he asked for a snack. Instead the man only said, “Thanks. How much for… what is this?”

They both gazed at the glass, Ronan in dismay. It held a deep pink liquid. “Rigellian liqueur.” It was rare. Moreover, it was a drink for warriors. The secretions of the xantas tree was known to take out even the burliest of beings. It was _not_ for just anyone, even one as annoying as his current patron. The being’s head only just came up to Ronan’s shoulder and he looked frail enough to snap between Ronan’s fingers. The man would probably need medical attention after a sip. The _Dark Aster_ didn’t need that kind of notoriety.

“Pretty color,” the man commented and took a gulp before Ronan could stop him. He grimaced, an eye scrunched shut from the drink’s fumes. “Phoo-ee! Bit rough. I like the fruity aftertaste, though. Nice call.” He waved a cred-chip. “Here. This good?”

Ronan waited a beat. The man didn’t waver or slide from his stool. Good enough, though perhaps the drink’s effects were delayed somehow. Ronan took the chip, tapped it on the reader and passed it back. The man slid it into an inner pocket and half-turned, scanning the large room. “Great space in here, you’ve actually got a dance floor and all. I mean, lots of bars on asteroid-based transit stations tend to be kind of small. Dimly lit tables and people doing business elbow to elbow, all secret-like.”

Ronan didn’t twitch at this. “Not at the _Dark Aster_. This is a respectable establishment.”

“Nah, I can see that,” the man said agreeably. “Much better doing some kinds of transactions when there’s all this music. Covers your conversation. Useful.” He took another contemplative sip of liqueur, sucking in a breath at the afterburn. Ronan considered whether it would not be worth it after all to arrange some sort of ‘accident’ for this revolting creature. That comment was uncomfortably close to the truth - either the man was dangerously clever or a lucky idiot. “And you can dance afterwards,” the man continued. “Which is awesome! You think they can put on some of my music? I’ve got some great dance tunes, just the kind of thing for when you wanna get to know another person a bit more intima -”

“No,” Ronan interrupted.

“But it’d be -”

“ _No._ ”

“Spoil-sport,” the man complained. “I guess it wouldn’t suit the style of this place anyway. It’s got this whole kinda dark plasteel stripped-down Addams family sort of Goth vibe. Not my thing, but the view’s not all bad.” He winked and drained his drink. “Be even more goth if you’d put on some eyeliner. Not that your eyes need the help, they really are amazing.”

Supreme Intelligence save him. Was he referring to the honoured facial markings of the Kree who served the Empire? Ronan’s opinion of the being tipped towards ‘lucky idiot’. It was the only explanation of how the man could still be alive. He pushed aside the compliment to his eyes - revolting from a Xandarian. He refilled the man’s glass - when would the liqueur’s effects set in and spare him this trial? “I have no idea what you mean by Addams… Goth… style,” he said stiffly. “But the blame for the decor must fall upon my own shoulders.”

With grim satisfaction Ronan watched the realisation filter through the Xandarian’s feeble excuse of a brain.

“Uh. You - um. Not just a hot bartender. I mean, you’re still hot, but this is your -?”

“Kree!” The whine cut the man’s babbling short. With relief Ronan turned towards the speaker. The wobbly Kylorian clattered his glass. “Kree, set me up with ‘nother. Need it.”

“Certainly.” Time to exercise his atrophied confidant skills. Drunks were so chatty, and often let most interesting titbits fall. He set another drink in front of the pink-skinned being. “You need it?” He let the question hang invitingly, ignoring the Xandarian’s lifted brows at the change in his demeanour. A wasted effort, he decided within a few moments. The Krylorian launched into a long and rambling plaint about some female with whom he’d had sexual relations.

“... ‘n then, she kicked me out! C’n you, can you believe it?” the Krylorian finished, aggrieved.

“That you are inept in the arts of the bedchamber? Yes,” Ronan said. His patience was wearing thin. The Krylorian blinked a few times, absorbing this and did his best to straighten up.

“What’re you tryin’ to say? Huh?”

“Oh, here we go,” he heard someone say with glee. Ronan ignored the excited murmur and braced his hands on the bar, looming over the Krylorian. “Need I repeat myself? Very well. She was well-justified in ridding herself of your presence. You are incapable of sexually pleasing a female. It is manifestly obvious by her behaviour after your night together. The tremors in your hands proclaim you a habitual drinker, no doubt affecting your performance. Your looks are sufficient for your race, but you have an overinflated view of your abilities. You are a drunkard, a braggart and a whiner who indulges in self-deception, preferring the pretense that your companion is the one at fault.” The Krylorian goggled at him, mouth opening and closing unattractively as Ronan finished. “She was right to dispose of you. You are no lover.”

“Accuser!” The cry went up around the bar. “The Accuser has spoken!” Hoots and catcalls followed the humiliated Krylorian as he slipped from his stool and wormed his way to the door. Ronan wiped his hands on a towel and scowled at the grinning faces.

“Enough!” he shouted. “Unless you wish to be next. Well?” A flurry of hands waved cred-chips, calling out drink orders. Ronan’s scowl deepened. “You.” He pointed at a random being who paled at being singled out. “Repeat your order.” In his peripheral vision he saw Gamora standing next to the Xandarian, who was wheezing with mirth.

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a savage take-down. What was all that about?” Ronan overheard. “‘The _Accuser?’_ ”

Gamora hummed. “Just a joke around here. He’s Kree. Kree Imperial Accusers are their enforcers.”

The man looked fascinated. “Yeah, I get that. But he’s not…?”

“No,” Gamora said. “Definitely not. I couldn’t speculate on how a Kree wound up so far from the Greater Magellan Cloud in this place.” A slim shoulder rolled, indicating the bar, Melkavi station, or possibly the interstitial space the latter held between legality and piracy on the edges of Andromeda Galaxy. “But as for the epithet applied to my employer? Some other drunk took exception to his, er…”

“Tough love?” the man suggested. “Rough therapy? Straight-shooting dickhead speeches?”

Gamora’s laughter pealed and Ronan gritted his teeth. “You could say that. The nickname has stuck, in spite of his displeasure. I can't say it doesn't suit him, though. You’d think it’d be bad for business, but it tends to weed out certain clientele. Besides, people like the entertainment.”

“Huh. But isn’t he, uh…” The man’s voice dropped and Ronan tilted his head. “Noble? Blue skinned Kree and all that. It’s kind of weird, isn’t it? I mean… a bar? Owner, that is. And bartender.”

Gamora’s voice was equally low and confiding. “Rumour has it that he… displeased someone. On his homeworld, Hala. No one knows the exact circumstances, only the result.”

The man’s eyes were wide. “Oh. Like, a gotta-leave-the-Empire screw-up? That sucks.”

Ronan growled. The patron he was serving abandoned its credit chip and scampered for the safety of the dance floor with its drink clutched in its talons. Curse Gamora. The Xandarian turned a melting look on Gamora, one corner of his mouth quirking. “Hey, listen, can I ask you something…?” He leant towards a faintly smiling Gamora, one hand settling on her waist as if for balance as he whispered in her ear. Gamora did not seem to mind, to Ronan’s disgust. Too much to hope for one of her more typical violent reactions to unwanted handling. She laughed again and stepped away.

“I’m sure you can discover that yourself,” she said and sauntered away, slender hips swaying.

“Stop distracting my servers,” Ronan said.

“What, man? I wasn’t even doing anything!”

He lifted a hand, catching his bar-runner’s attention. “S’voo. Take care of these.” S’voo’s stalk eyes swivelled to the crowd waiting and back with a look of betrayal. Ronan chose to ignore it, positioning himself in front of the Xandarian, arms crossed. “What did you ask her?”

“Why? Jealous?” The man seemed distracted, eyes flicking from Ronan’s forearms, up the biceps bared by his tunic and finally to his face.

“She has a job to do. You interfere with it. What did you ask?”

“Interfere? Come on, dude, I was just talking, it’s a _bar._ ” Ronan waited, until the man sighed. “Okay, whatever. I was asking her about you.”

“Me.” Ronan’s voice was flat.

“Yeah, you, Mr. Big, Mean and Mysterious.”

“Specify the information you wanted to obtain.”

“Your name?” the being drawled. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

Ah. An opportunity. “You haven’t given me yours.” With a name, Ronan would be able to research information on the Xandarian.

“Well, people know me as Star-Lord.” The man looked expectant.

“What people?” Ronan asked to nettle him.

“Well - uh. People! Everyone who knows me!”

“Really.” Ronan lifted a brow. “So no one knows you.”

“People have heard of me,” Star-Lord protested. “Some people, anyway.”

“A lofty name for a nobody,” Ronan said.

Star-Lord flushed but lifted his chin. “I’m not ‘nobody’. At least, I won’t be for long.”

Brash. Foolish. “A ridiculous name,” he pronounced.

“S’what my mom called me,” the man muttered. The brief pang of guilt Ronan felt at that disappeared as the man continued, “What does your mother call you?”

The _persistence_ of the man had Ronan staring at him in a species of irritated wonderment. “That’s none of your business, Xandarian.”

“ _Star-Lord._ And I’m not a Xandarian, dude!” Unexpectedly, Star-Lord grinned, eyes lighting up. “I’m something much less common in these parts. I’m from -”

“Quill!” a voice shouted. “ _Quill_! Das’t take you, boy! I know you must be in here, where are you?” The speaker was a Centaurian in a long coat, the flame-burst patch on his sleeve matching Star-Lord’s own.

Star-Lord’s eyes went wide and he hunched flat over the bar. “Oh, crap. Crap!” His eyes darted left and right before lifting to Ronan’s. He reached a hand towards Ronan. “Look, you gotta hide me. Can I get behind the bar? I’ll pay you anything, I swear.”

Ronan looked from the beseeching hand and up towards the Centaurian. The newcomer was flanked by several others, ship crewmembers by the looks of them. The Centaurian’s brow was furrowed, eyes glinting with annoyance as he scanned the dim club. But some of his crew were looking about with speculation. Trouble, Ronan decided. Nothing Gamora or his other servers couldn’t handle, but he himself was in no mood. He caught Star-Lord’s… _Quill’s_ frantic eye and let his lips stretch into something like a smile. Quill’s breath caught, his hunted expression changing into one of hope. He slid a broad palm over Quill’s hand. Quill’s pulse beat a rapid tattoo against Ronan’s fingers as he slowly curled his fingers around the other’s wrist. _Ah, this is sweet_ , Ronan thought. He waited for a moment, just long enough that Quill’s lips began to curve into a helpless smile. Ronan looked up and called, “Quill? Here! He’s right here, sir.”

Quill struggled to pull away in vain. Within moments the Centaurian was behind him, clapping a hand on Quill’s shoulder. “There you are, boy! You missed the rendezvous time. We’ve been looking all over for you. Odd how you forgot your com. Again.” The blue fingers curled into the synth-leather and Peter’s shoulders dropped.

“Oh, yeah, about that, Yondu...”

“Never mind, we’ll have a little confab about it later, hm?” The Centaurian grinned at Ronan. “Much obliged. You can let him go now.”

Ronan released Quill, his own smile feeling more and more genuine. “Don’t worry about the drink… _Quill_. On the house.”

“It’s Star-Lord!” Quill corrected, face flushing. “You - you’re… I can't _believe -”_

“No time for social niceties, we’ve got to head out. Now,” said Yondu with meaning, shoving Peter towards the door. Quill’s fellow crewmembers surrounded him, hiding him from view. The last Ronan heard was an accusatory cry of, “You big, blue... _meanie!_ Ow! I didn’t mean you, Yondu, geez…”

Ronan barked a laugh, prompting Gamora to fumble a glass at the unexpected sound. Perhaps the foolish Quill was beginning to understand that Ronan was not to be trifled with. That had been …unexpectedly entertaining.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Kree Battle Poetry - in Ronan’s words:**
> 
>  
> 
> “You ask me of _ka-thu-ni_? I doubt you possess the mental capacity to understand… Very well, as you insist on this pretence of interest. Battle poetry is only one of the many things that demonstrate the superiority of the Kree culture. It unites linguistic creativity with the physical in martial arts, and is a singular art form. In its earliest incarnation, it had a set rhythm that mimicked the swinging of a weapon, and it can still be used thusly for basic melee training. The meter is 4-3-4-2, the last line indicative of a death blow with the sudden shift. 
> 
> A _ka-thu-na_ should not require much thought - it should be spontaneous. Savage. The words should fill one with purpose, with focus on the task at hand. Ideally, it would be composed in the midst of battle. They are ephemeral things, capturing the beauty and heat of the moment. Some of the greatest battle poems, it is said, are forever unknown, as the warrior’s focus is on the fight and once finished, the need of the poem is ended as well, and the words drift away, never to be recorded. 
> 
> No, I am not lecturing. If you find the delivery not to your taste, then you should not have asked.
> 
> My own works? I have not experienced true battle yet. But the composition of battle poems is a form of mental exercise. It should centre one.
> 
> Yes. I have composed a few with certain bar patrons in mind. Better than dealing with station-sec for murder. A memorable one? I doubt you have the artistic sensitivity to appreciate it… Fine, I will humour you. This piece was created while dealing with a particularly annoying Ravager. It may lose something in translation.
> 
> Blue on white, now blue on purple  
> I grip your throat and squeeze  
> Between my palms your silence spills  
> Peace from strength.
> 
> You think it’s… nice. I suppose I should thank you. I won’t. Your approbation means nothing - the poem was not meant for you.
> 
> Enough of this. I have better things to attend to. Do you want another drink or not?”
> 
>  


	2. Traitors and Technicians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reminder of Ronan's past makes brief, unpleasant appearance. Gamora tempts fate by blackmailing her boss into talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Say I know nothing of honour or pride  
>  Behold my exile and laugh  
> Know you that righteous will I return  
> My foes destroyed.**
> 
> **Battle poem by Ronan, son of Tu-Nan.**   
> 

Ronan simmered with low-level fury as he sat at one of the _Dark Aster_ ’s low tables. The figures for the evening’s take winked up from his tablet but he couldn’t focus on them. Another night of loud music, incomprehensible drink orders slurred at him, and patrons whose heads he longed to crush. Supremor, he hated this place. His peace-keeper, the training maul he’d brought from Hala, was concealed beneath the bar. He imagined it, the heavy, comfortable weight in his palms, its sibilant hiss as he swung it singing a sweet song of poetic battle, but... No. This was his life now, and he’d keep to his course. He was Kree.

Therein lay the problem. He was on his own in this sector, and the reputation of the Kree made most wary of crossing him. But Kree imperial expansion was never popular with neighbouring planets. And there were enough beings that, with enough intoxicant in their systems, were more than willing to take on one solitary Kree. Thus far, he hadn’t needed to sully his hands on those who tried physical intimidation. Gamora more than earned her salary taking care of those.

But this night two Kree merchants, of House Fiyero by their livery, had come to the _Dark Aster_. Possibly they had heard the rumours of the strange Kree who ran a bar on Melkavi station. Or perchance it was only ill-luck that had brought them to his door. That they had heard of Ronan, Kree exile, was obvious. Such news could hardly be contained, nor had the Empire wanted it to be kept quiet. The memory of the vid his father had made publicly repudiating him still caused Ronan’s stomach to twist.

The merchants had paid for their drinks with good credit. But it was the mockery that made Ronan’s fists ache with the need to do violence.

“Why, it’s Ronan, isn’t it?” The sound of his own language had caught Ronan’s attention. A chubby Kree with a white moustache was smirking as he gestured theatrically for the sake of his companion. “Son of Tu-Nan? Or… ah, but wait. Not since he disowned you. Fine… place you have here, Ronan, son of No One.” He looked about with a practised eye. “One could wonder how you managed the funds to set yourself up after banishment.”

“Gel-Rath, just be quiet, eh?” The taller and more prescient of the two had a hand on the other’s shoulder, trying to guide him away. “Look, there’s a table free over there-”

“Oh.” Gel-Rath pulled a face. “Perhaps I shouldn’t bring up a painful memory. I’d apologise, but never to -”

Something in the quality of Ronan’s stillness had the tall Kree wrenching his friend away before Gel-Rath finished the sentence. The ending echoed in Ronan’s head nonetheless. _Never to a traitor._ That was how he was known to the Kree now.

Ronan’s fingers tightened on the tablet until it bleeped a protest. He wanted to track down those disgusting money-grubbers. He wanted to enter their ship and ensure their passage back to Empire space was their final one. But he would not. They were Kree, and as distasteful as Ronan found House Fiyero’s politics, they still served the Empire. As would he. As _did_ he.

He set the tablet aside as Gamora slid into the seat opposite. “Good night?” she asked.

“Sufficient.” Ronan gave up poking at the tablet and set it aside. “Anything interesting?”

“Not much. Only two single stampers.” Gamora stretched, flexing her ankles. Fit though she was, serving was hard work. Gamora preferred bouncing drunks much more - it gave her under-utilised fighting skills more of a work-out. The problem was that there were those who enjoyed being man-handled by an attractive woman. They would return, sometimes several times a night, to have the experience again. It gotten to the point where they’d instituted a system of hand-stamps for the ejected. If they were bounced once but came back, their bar tab trebled or quadrupled. After two incidents, the offenders had a choice - Ronan or station security. All had chosen the second option thus far. Apparently being thrown out by Ronan seemed less enjoyable than dealing with station-sec. There were other establishments that would cater to their tastes on Melkavi station, after all. But word had about Gamora and her sister Nebula had spread. “You know, I had another employment offer from Rath’nor. A very competitive salary,” Gamora said.

“You won’t take it,” Ronan said.

“Is that an order or an observation?” At Ronan’s snort, Gamora grinned. “Just wanted to let you know. A woman does like her work to be appreciated.”

“I think our business relationship does involve mutual appreciation. And profitable exchanges.” It did not involve trust. Ronan knew to whom the sisters took their intel. That the Mad Titan was taking an interest in this sector was unsettling information. But so long as Thanos wasn’t known to be working against the Kree Empire, Ronan tolerated his spies. Gamora and Nebula were excellent assets. Ronan lifted a shoulder and finally brought the subject up. “The Kree merchants? Anything?”

“Mm.” Gamora continued working through seated stretches. “The fat one is a fool, but an indiscreet one with a few fortified drinks in him. Was quite happy at the progress made establishing trade ties on the edges of Xandarian space.”

“Damn them.” Ronan stood up, the scraping of the chair legs loud in the empty bar. “Trade. With Xandarians, no doubt.” His hands curled into fists in instinctual reaction. The thousand-year war with Xandar was ever waxing and waning. Currently both races were in a cease-fire. But Ronan never forgot that his grandfather had been lost during one of the last flare-ups as both expansionist empires clashed over control of planets and resources. That House Fiyero would even _think_ of treating with the enemy… And for profit! “The scum.”

Gamora leaned back, unworried by his vehemence. “They were at table 1-E. The audio pick-up should be quite good.”

“My thanks. I’ll run it through the analyser and review it later.” Ronan breathed his fury out and relaxed his hands. He would pass the information on through his secret channels, to make its way back to the Kree Empire. Ronan hoped that they would act on it swiftly. He briefly entertained a vision of Gel-Rath’s under an Accuser’s Universal Weapon. “To think that they call me a traitor.”

Gamora cocked her head. “You are in exile.”

“I am Kree,” Ronan said. He served the Empire, in all ways he could.

“You are a man of honour,” Gamora said. “To think of your people first, even after they turned against you? It shows great strength of character in one so young.”

Ronan bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Your words are appreciated. Even one such as I can yet serve.”

“Speaking of your serving -” Gamora began but Ronan shook his head.

“Nothing of note came to my attention tonight. Perhaps when tonight’s audio analysis is done...”

Gamora waved the excuse away. “No, not that. I was hoping for some older intel that you’ve not yet shared with me.” Her smile was sly. “That man from about 10 day-cycles back? Quill?”

Ronan scowled but dropped back into his seat. “I take it this is prurient curiousity on your part?” he shot at her.

“Yes,” she said, unashamed. “Sort of cute, if you like that type. Funny.”

“There’s nothing about him to interest you, I swear.”

Gamora sighed. “Ah. Well. Did I mention that Rath’nor’s offer was triple what I make here? Serving drinks is exhausting compared to recreational domination…” She slumped in her chair, boneless and mock-petulant. “And my current boss is demanding. Impatient. Constantly cross, inclined to duck out of his duties -”

“Enough.” In spite of himself, Ronan felt his lips twitch. “Show some respect.”

“In due course.” Gamora twirled a finger in a come-along gesture. “Now, give.”

“There’s not much to tell. The subject’s name is one Peter Quill…”

“Oh, not like that,” Gamora complained, straightening up. “It’s intel, yes, but do you need to make it sound like a drink ingredient list?”

“Supremor save me.” Ronan gave in to the urge to rub his temples. “Do I look like a story teller?”

“Rath’nor,” she reminded him and Ronan decided he would give in to the madwoman’s whims.

“Fine. But only because I cannot afford to lose another server.” Not because he was amused by the sight of a dangerous woman as eager for gossip as any youngling. He cast about mentally for the right tone, thought of childhood tales and nodded. That would fit. “There are those who have heard of Peter Quill,” he intoned. Amusement curled within Ronan as he remembered Quill’s face as the Ravagers had dragged him away. “But they that truly know him, those few, those unhappy few! Call him… Star-Lord.”

Gamora choked on a laugh. “Why unhappy?”

Ronan dropped his voice to a rumble. “Because he is a _pirate_. A crew member with the Ravagers.”

“Ravagers. Oh my.” Gamora widened her eyes.

“A terrible group of mercenaries, whose fleet of ships strike fear into the hearts of their victims,” Ronan embellished. “It’s been said that they obey no laws but their own, and there are rumours that they…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “ _Eat the weak._ ”

“Economical,” Gamora remarked. “A fleet of ships?”

“Actually, yes.” Ronan cleared his throat and resumed. “But! Being a lot of dirty mercenaries, they are incapable of acting in unison without their leader, the vile Yondu Udonta, a Centaurian with a criminal record as long as I am tall in several galaxies.”

“Hm. That’s quite good information, actually. A sizable fleet for hire could prove useful.” Gamora tilted her head. “But, dirty? Peter Quill seemed quite hygienic to me.”

The observation derailed Ronan’s train of thought. “What? No, it was only an expression.”

“Smelled pleasant enough, as well.”

“It was probably the Rigellian liqueur.” Ronan rallied. “Mercenaries have dubious morals and often work in opposition to law and order.”

“Ah.” Gamora nodded. “Hence: dirty. Is your Star-Lord besmirched according to your definition? Please go on.”

“Thank you,” Ronan said in deepest irony. “And he’s not mine. He’s a nuisance.” He frowned. “Surprisingly, not very ‘dirty’. One count of fraud, and another of drunk and disorderly conduct. He’s twenty six Standard. Perhaps his work with the Ravagers is menial only. It would explain the ambitious Star-Lord appellation.”

“Star-Lord, Ravager and mercenary.” Gamora picked up the story-telling cadence. “A handsome face, charming manner and sweet scent only disguised his real talent! What that talent is, I couldn’t say, but…!”

“But?”

“Whatever devious crimes he’s committed, whatever treasures he’s stolen,” Gamora said in mysterious tones, “we may never know. He’s never yet been _caught._ ”

Ronan snorted. “Unlikely. Ship-cleaner. Computer tech. That’s Star-Lord. No one important.”

Gamora chuckled. “And there’s a fine story torn up by Kree pragmatism. Is there more?”

“Not really. He’s Terran, not Xandarian.” It had defused some of Ronan’s resentment towards Quill, knowing he was not one of the enemy. But it had also given him an odd turn. He knew of Terrans, yes, but only from his advanced xeno course in school. In the appendices, there had been a notation that the Kree had done experiments on Quill’s earliest ancestors, but Ronan hadn’t studied the topic any further. He was thus unable to deduce whether any good had come of the Kree meddling, judging by Quill’s less-than-sterling example.

“Terran,” repeated Gamora. “I’ve only met a few. Must be lonely for him.” Her smile was tinged with wistfulness. Ronan looked away. Gamora was the last of her species, the Zen-Whoberi.

“I care not for his isolation,” he growled. “He could return to his planet.” Ronan could not. Not yet.

Gamora lifted and dropped her shoulders. “True. And to wind this tale up? Peter Quill, a.k.a. Star-Lord...”

“Never stops talking. Can’t be dissuaded from…” _Making sexual overtures towards me_. Ronan changed tact. “Impossible courses of action. Is a mere 304 microbules in height...”

“And 1400 grets of weight. Yes, yes.” Gamora rolled her eyes. Ronan narrowed his.

“You already knew this!”

“Of course.” She smirked. “What kind of employee would I be if I didn’t look out for my boss’s welfare? He was persistent. I was curious.”

“You are a _terrible_ employee,” Ronan told her

“Because I enjoy seeing you off-balance? I’m not the only one. I can think of one other who would love to see you tip right over.” She winked.

“Never say that again. I will _sell_ you to Rath’nor.”

“No, you won’t,” Gamora said.

“Is that an order? Or an observation?“ Ronan tossed back Gamora’s earlier words. She only smiled.

“The latter. Because terrible I may be, but I’m your best and most dangerous employee. Now humour me. Is there anything about the dirty and despicable Star-Lord that isn’t in his official sheet?”

“Besides repeating that he never stops moving his mouth?” Ronan considered. _Green eyes._ The thought popped into his head and he bit back the observation. “He seems to hold his drink well. Otherwise, no. His association with the Ravagers isn’t sufficient to make him a person of interest.”

“No?” Gamora’s tone was polite disbelief.

Ronan’s temper began to rise. “Enough.”

Recognising the signs, Gamora rose in one graceful movement. “I grow weary of this as well. One last thing: Nebula has returned. She’ll come in for the next shift.”

“Ah.” One of the drawbacks of the daughters of Thanos - they often absented themselves for weeks at a time. They provided no explanations and he asked for none. Missions for Thanos, he knew. But as one would cover the other’s shifts, it made no great difference in how the _Dark Aster_ functioned. “Very well.”

“I’ll be going off-station within three cycles but we’ll both be here tomorrow.” She threw a smirk over her shoulder as she moved to the door. “Lucky you.”

“Until then,” Ronan responded and drew his tablet back towards him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yondu Udonta - In Peter Quill’s words:**
> 
>  
> 
> “Yondu, a father figure? Nah, he was never like that. Wouldn’t know to do with a father anyway. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have one, and I never did. Yondu’s more like… your dad’s scary brother, the one who talks tough and looks like he just busted outta jail. But this guy’s smart, like _really_ smart. And he’s got this killer sense of humour that comes out of nowhere, and he shows you some cool tricks with real weapons and… I don’t know. It’s complicated. But he looks out for you. He always did, even from back when he picked me up from Earth as a kid. 
> 
> “Yeah, _really,_ but that’s, like, a whole ‘nother story. So, no, he’s not a monster. He’s fair, so long as you do what you’re supposed to. It’s why he sits in the big chair, right? I know what they say about Ravagers and all, but Yondu actually runs a pretty tight outfit. He’s definitely not my dad, though. Scary uncle-figure who’s also my captain? Yup. That’s Yondu. I’d never tell him to his face - and you should never, _ever_ repeat this - but he’s all right. A good guy. Mostly. I’d know.”


End file.
